Nightmares
by KnittedSweater
Summary: "And suddenly, quicker than Merlin could say 'dollop head', he was face to face with the lifeless figure. His blue eyes now dull, skin freshly pale, and lips a slight blue. They were so close that their noses were almost touching. Dead blue met horrified, wide-eyed blue. God, he wanted to shove away, drift down into the darkness. Anything other than staring him down."


**Okay, okay, this one's slightly more... gory than my other stories, but it's not much. It's just spilled blood. But it's kind of dark. **

**WARNING: mentions of hanging and blood.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Merlin.**

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**Nightmares**

****His most painful dreams come on the most peaceful days.

He knows when they're coming. He knows when those horrid dreams born of malicious musings will attack him in his sleep.

But he tells no one.

He tells no one because he doesn't want them to worry when he's supposed to be worrying. He doesn't want a pitiful thing such as dreams to cause such a stir when he's supposed to be caring for others, because that's what he does. Out of the goodness of his heart, he worries to the point of life or death decisions. It's voluntary, but it's his destiny, to care too much. To make sure the prat(who isn't really such a prat anymore) doesn't die too early.

And he does this with magic.

Cruel, unforgiving, forever ill-intentioned magic. Magic that if detected, could very make him a human torch, ordered to be burnt into a crisp by King Arthur of Camelot.

That's what he fears the most. No, it's not the death he fears, it's the misunderstanding. He fears losing Arthur's trust, the knight's trust. He fears losing his friends for God's sake. He fears not being able to explain what his magic has done to save their ignorant asses for the past years.

He doesn't want to go out as a traitor, because he's not. But he doesn't want to go out with a bang, because he knows he doesn't deserve it for all the lives he's taken.

All the lives he's taken for the sake of Arthur fucking Pendragon.

So before a rest he puts off until he hears Gaius' snores, he prepares himself. He reminds himself of who's died and who's been changed for the worse because of him. He sheds a tear here and there, but he notices they're less frequent each night. But to curb those dreadful, salt-guilt tears, he reminds himself of who's lived and who's been changed for the better because of him.

His first thought's always Arthur.

Then he settles into bed, closing his eyes and giving way to the exhaustion that's been ebbing at him since the late afternoon. The darkness soon surrounds him, and he realizes, for the umpteenth time, that pep talks don't work when you don't know what's coming. His mind is far darker and guiltier than he'd like to admit, and the depths of his mind hidden with an innocent face are revealed.

Tonight is no exception.

His dreams - nightmares - started with a dark room that seemed so familiar. The fancy, four-poster bed laced in red cloth(the color he somehow relieved from memory), the placing of the tables, the blonde form sprawled on the bed, the wingspan of his arms causing his fingers to dangle a bit off the edge. His head is turned to one side. A bit of bare back is exposed where the - presumably warm - blanket can't reach.

It always started in this room. It always did, but the stories and the terror were all presented in different ways each night, making him twitchy whenever a good day rolled around.

Tonight, a cloudy darkness tainted everything but the figure's bed. Hands slithered across the sheets to grab at his throat. One with a silver bracelet shackled on its wrist. One with a silver ring slipped on a finger. One with slightly chipped nails and deep hangnails. There were more, though. Some were beefy and strong. Others were bony and slender. But the size didn't matter. They were all driven with a malice he couldn't even fathom.

A suddenly, his lips - Merlin's lips - were moving, conjuring a rope out of the lush blanket. The blonde's arms and legs curled into his exposed chest, muscles flinching away from the dragging nails and pinching fingers. Merlin whimpered as his hands, that vowed to serve this very man, no matter what the cost, were fashioning a noose out of the white, cotton rope. A wide loop was made and pried gently around the curled up figure's neck. Merlin's teeth gritted as his pale hands tied the other end to the top of the bed posts.

Then his eyes opened.

Blue, deep blue eyes cracked open and stared in shock at him. His lips bent to form a word, and his vocal chords seemed to boom through his ears.

"Why?"

But Merlin didn't answer. He couldn't answer. His hands were already finishing off the knot, and when his hands left the cotton, the bed disappeared, leaving only the wood of the posts. The blonde's body whipped downward, seeming to drop into the cloudy pit surrounding them when the rope jerked the body back.

After a few jostling seconds, the body laid still, the rope spinning it in a cryptic circle.

And suddenly, quicker than Merlin could say "dollop head", he was face to face with the lifeless figure. His blue eyes now dull, skin freshly pale, and lips a slight blue. They were so close that their noses were almost touching. Dead blue met horrified, wide-eyed blue. God, he wanted to shove away, drift down into the darkness. Anything other than staring him down.

But his limbs were frozen.

He was frozen, stuck in a horrific stance. Fingers splayed to his sides, knees jerked slightly in apprehension, and head tilted forward in disbelief.

Then those dull, blue eyes snapped up to meet his, glaring sullenly with accusation and hate. He felt clammy fingers claw up his tunic, searching for the fabric of his neckerchief. The blonde's fingers reached for the very back of the neckerchief and held the red fabric in a death grip. The hanged man's now dry lips tiredly grunted out a haunting whisper.

"I was your king."

And the floor dropped from under him. Merlin's arms flailed as his neckerchief strained against his throat, seizing at the airways. When he dared to look up, the blonde's - no, Arthur's - face loomed above him, eyes owlishly wide in a blank stare.

He felt hands grabbing at his neck now, not vying for Arthur's. Cold, clammy hands of the people he had loved. Morgana's slender hands were no longer those of a friend, but a clever enemy. Gwen's fingers were stained with the blood of the people he'd killed.

And then a pair of thick-fingered hands grabbed at his chin from above. They intertwined under his chin and pulled him up and away from the ghastly hands to crush him backwards against a chest colder than it should be. The hands force his head to tilt upward, the back of his head thumping against the icy skin. His eyes met Arthur's once again. Now the king is wide-eyed and glaring with an accusation that puts and angry glint in his still rather owlish eyes. His eyebrows are raised in either waiting for an explanation or waiting to see what happens.

Merlin's head hurts. It hurts from having to roll his eyes back and having so many thoughts running through his head. His neck feels too cold. The neckerchief has disappeared into the abyss. Blood runs down the bridge of Arthur's nose and the plump of his cheeks. His hair is matted in a bloody gold. A drop of blood nicks a corner of his lips and streaks the space between them red. More blood flows down Arthur's face, and it drips off his jawline to hit Merlin's forehead with a soft, yet deafening patter.

"Stop lying to me."

Merlin cringes in terror as more and more blood splatters his face. It seems to come from everywhere. And before he knows it, it's just Arthur's head. Nothing but a jaggedly cut neck and blood spilling out. He wants to scream. He wants to scream because he knows it's a dream, but he can't quite wake himself up because he's still frozen, still stuck to those eyes that are calling him a traitor.

And then he falls.

He's falling - falling -

And then the bright light of the morning seeping through the windows burns the backs of his eyes. He blinks and feels worse than yesterday. He's curled up into a ball, his neck sore from straining in his sleep.

He forces himself up. He tries not to shudder when he enters Arthur's room, but to no avail. His shaking hands put the breakfast tray in danger of ending up on the floor.

But he's stronger than that, and he knows it. So he puts the tray on the table and throws open the curtains, all with a grin that crinkles his eyes.

"Rise and shine, Arthur!"

It takes everything in his power not to cry or sigh in relief when he hears Arthur's usual groan. It takes everything in his power not to envision the blood dripping down his face or his lips turning a shade bluer when Arthur sits up.

And he makes it through the day.


End file.
